Page 53 of The Sentinel

But not today.

Today, I needed comfort.

I needed fabric that didn’t suffocate me, that didn’t remind me of press junkets and calculated appearances. I needed something soft, something worn. Something that didn’t feel like a costume.

The tank top and shorts weren’t what I usually wore in the field, but this wasn’t just a case anymore. Diego was gone. And the world had changed.

The weight of that truth settled deeper into my bones as I took a slow breath, pushing back the edges of the grief that still refused to fully take shape.

I turned away from my suitcase, running a towel through the ends of my hair.

And when I looked up, Marcus was there.

He stood near the door, leaning against the frame, arms crossed—but not in that usual defensive, closed-off way. His posture was relaxed, his expression unreadable but not hard. Just watching. Waiting.

He didn’t say anything, didn’t rush me. Just let me move at my own pace, let me have the space to breathe. It was strange, seeing this side of him—the quietpatience, the gentleness lurking beneath all the sharp edges.

And then, taking a breath, I turned toward the door.

It was still strange, being in his space.

As I walked slowly around his room, I trailed my fingers along the dark wood of his dresser, taking things in more carefully now. The bookshelves, the rich textures, the neatly arranged bottles of cologne—evidence of the man behind the fortress.

But it wasn’t until I noticed the framed photo on his desk that I stopped.

It was small, unassuming, as if he hadn’t intended it to be a centerpiece.

Two men stood side by side in fatigues, the desert stretching behind them in a blur of heat and dust. One was Marcus—his face younger but still carrying that sharp, unreadable intensity. The other man was grinning, his arm slung around Marcus’s shoulder, his teeth flashing bright against sun-darkened skin.

I reached for the frame without thinking, my fingers brushing over the smooth glass.

Behind me, I heard Marcus shift.

His gaze locked onto the picture in my hands, and in that moment, the air changed.

Something flickered in his expression—something fast, almost imperceptible. Not anger. Not irritation. Something closer to shame.

I lifted the frame slightly, my voice soft. “Who is he?”

Marcus didn’t answer right away.

Instead, he stepped forward, his jaw ticking as he took the frame from my hands. He stared at it, thumb brushing over the edge, before exhaling through his nose.

“Jason Lawson,” he said finally. His voice was different now—rougher, quieter. “We served together.”

I waited, sensing there was more.

Marcus set the frame back down, but he didn’t look away from it.

“We were on assignment overseas,” he continued, his fingers tightening into a fist at his side. “Marine Raiders. Covert op. Intel was bad. They said the village was clear.” A slow, humorless laugh escaped him, but there was nothing funny about it. “It wasn’t.”

I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Marcus’s shoulders had gone stiff, his entire body coiled like a wire stretched too tight.

“They ambushed us,” he said. “Took out our lead vehicle with an IED. We scrambled, tried to recover, but we were outnumbered. Cut off.” His jaw clenched. “Lawson was on my six. He should have made it out.”

I knew where this was going. I felt the answer in my bones before he even spoke it.

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